


Somewhere Away From War

by Rachy



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce, PIERCE Tamora - Works, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachy/pseuds/Rachy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Briar and Kel meet in the Yamani Islands, and romance ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Away From War

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Goldenlake's 2010 SMACKDOWN One Night Stand Weekend.  
> Received an Honourable Mention for Emelan in Piercefic 2010.

A young man kneels in the middle of the Emperor’s gardens, surrounded by a waving veil of plants. She knows that the exact place he’s kneeling gives him the best view of the Emperor’s favoured miniature roses and lilies, and she has spent many afternoons herself admiring the same view, although her admiration wasn’t blocked by the vines that have twisted around him like a trellis. She’s heard of this man.

“The Yamani admire your work greatly.” He turns towards her, standing, and she watches as the plants and thorns curl away from him. He dusts the dirt from his hands and knees, and gives her a grin that makes his face truly handsome. She places her hands on her knees and bows, and is surprised that he gives her the exact same bow, the same degree of honour for her as she gave him, the whispered of plant mage from lands far south west of the Copper Isles.

“They have a great deal of respect for you, too.” His accent adds an unfamiliar lilt to his words, and she acknowledges his compliment with a quick smile. It seems odd to her that he knows who she is at least by sight, and that he knows the Yamani have respect for her as a by-product of her mother’s work. “They think very highly of you for rescuing the children.” A faint blush crosses her cheeks, and he smiles.

“Briar Moss.” He offers his hand to her, bowing slightly.

“Keladry of Mindelan.” She takes it, and his grip is warm and comfortably tight as he shakes it, before lifting it to his lips and kissing her fingers. He reminds her of Dom in his charm, except that there’s something incredibly disarming about this man from distant lands, from his tanned skin and grey-green eyes, showing his amusement, to his charming grin that made her want to know exactly what it was that he found amusing. He feels real to her, from the calluses on his hands and the dirt in his fingernails, even to the bizarre vines trickling over his hands in a myriad of blooms, the finely made clothes he wears and the energy he gives out. He is not as polished as she has grown to expect from the few mages of renown she knows, but he also lacks the tangible air of power. 

She’s not quite what he expected when several Yamani described the fearsome, brave and courageous lady knight. He can tell by her stance that she knows what to do with the fearsome polearm she carries like a staff, and that she is down to earth, from the practice clothes she wears, quilted and inexpensive, yet tailored perfectly to accentuate her form and allowing her movement. Her hands are not as soft as the ladies of Berenene’s court, she works from the calluses he feels, and he can see that she’s spent time in this place before, as a child perhaps, from the blank face she maintains, and the sense of calm emanating from her, strikingly similar to every other person he has met here.

.

“So, what exactly is that pole-arm you’re wielding?” She turns and smiles at him, resting the staff on the ground and leaning against it. He had returned to the rose gardens the next day, and had been pleasantly surprised (and slightly hopeful) to see her there again, and had offered to walk her to the practice courts.

 

“Here they call it a naginata. A glaive.”

“It looks like a staff got mixed with a pirate’s sword.”

“Not quite.” She offers it to him, and he takes it firmly in his hands. He steps back and spins it, watching the blade slice through the air, and smiles. 

“Daj’ would love this.”

“Daj?” A flicker of confusion crosses her eyes, and she reminds herself that really, this stranger is of no business to her.

“Yeah. Daja, my foster sister. Back home. She’s a Trader. They all carry staffs, and she taught me a few things. It’s not really that different to this.” He gestures. “Just doesn’t have the little belt-knife attached.”

She stifles a laugh, raising her eyebrows and ignoring the tingle of relief she feels. Unattached does not mean available.

“Is that a challenge, Master Moss?”

“Briar. Please. And why yes, Lady Keladry, I suppose it is.” 

.

It is a surprising struggle to pull air into her lungs for a workout with someone who had insisted they were just a beginner. It is mildly reassuring that it was a long sparring match, and his moves were like nothing she had ever seen, but he is still working, glaive twisting around in his hands. They are in a mirrored practice room, two days after their first spar, and he uses the glaive as he would an ordinary staff, like the Trader’s staff he had been taught with. She leans against the wall, drinking slowly from her waterskin, as the glaive twirls in his hands, blocking, striking, slicing and spinning in a way that is so different from the way she’s been taught, even different to how the most experienced glaive fighters would fight here. She slips quickly out of the room, judging by the tense and avid concentration on his face that he won’t notice her absence, and grabs a pair of staffs from the weapons room. She walks back to see him drinking, and she tosses a staff in his direction. He grabs it with a hand, impressing her slightly with his fast reflexes and caps his drink.

“Figured I could teach you some tricks?” He laughs, grinning, and it widens as her eyes narrow.

“I’m perfectly capable of teaching you some too.”

“You any good at hand to hand fighting?”

“I’m a knight. We’re supposed to be a master of any weapon we have access to. I’m not a Shang, by any means, but I could hold my own.”

“A Shang?”

“You haven’t met her yet? There’s one in Court at the moment. The Wolf.” She smiles, and he looks more confused. “Oh. The Shang are masters at hand-to-hand combat. They can win a fight against a swordsman without using a single weapon but their body. They’re trained since childhood. Basically, they’re infallible.” 

“Infallible. Maybe I should test how good I am against her then.” He grins, and it is far more bitter than sweet, a familiar negative tinge to his words that reminds her startlingly of herself, and she wonders, maybe, if he has as much pain in his life as she does at the moment. His smile grows friendlier, and he lifts up a staff. “But I’ll give you a shot first.”

She picks the other one up and eyes him warily. They circle, testing, and there is a wicked sparkle in Briar’s eyes, that he enjoys this, and she tightens her fingers, taking a solidifying breath.. 

“20 hits?”

“I think you think that’ll mean you get to spend more time with me.” He grins, and she smiles back. She notices how his fingers shift slightly on the staff, in a different position to how she holds her own, and remembers how often the lesson of attacking first was drilled into her. She feints for his legs, and whacks at his shoulder, and the clack of wood echoes her response. A small smile plays about his mouth, and his fingers shift and grip tighter on the wood. A shift in the muscles accentuated by his shirt blocks a blow to her midriff, and she hits another closer to his head. The sounds of breathing, her soft slippers sliding on the wooden floor, the creaking of his bare feet against the floorboards, and the heavy clack of wood are the only sounds in the room. She uses her staff in the most basic of movements, swinging wildly with the barest intent, and then finds herself with a gap, and takes it, slapping the side of his knee. She steps back.

“One.” He grins in reply.

She detects a pattern to his movements now, and yet it’s not something she can easily unpick. She pulls out movements her body only half remembers from long-ago dances and he still keeps up, a mask of concentration covering both of their faces. Her mind loses track in the blur of hits and misses and the echoing strike and block, and two bells have passed by the time he throws the staff to the floor and she slams her staff into his hand. She drops it instantly as he swears, sweat dripping across his face, and takes his hand in hers. He winces, wiping sweat off his forehead as she brushes a finger over the red mark, noticing how the vines on his hand have grown into navy and black swirls. She winces.

“Sorry.” She says sheepishly. 

“It’s ‘kay. I probably should have warned you before I dropped it.” A grin flashes across his face.

“Nothing’s broken?”

“Just heavily bruised. I’ve. Had worse.” She can see it again in the darkening of his eyes that he has a heavy burden of secrets, and she feels odd, because she sympathises with him and yet cannot share her own burden. 

“Would you mind terribly if you escorted me to my rooms? I’m bound to get lost.”

She grins, and he knows that with any other girl, they would have taken it as an open invitation. Keladry doesn’t, although a soft blush gathers across her cheeks, and she drops his hand. She hands him the waterskin and grabs the staffs, taking them back and leading them diplomatically through the halls. The smell of incense makes him stiffen, and Keladry appears to notice, slowing down and walking to his pace. She seems out of balance here, nodding her head politely to the Yamani servants, distracted and very ill at ease.

“You don’t seem at home here.” His question startles her, startles himself, and she snaps out of her thoughts.

“I used to be,” She says quietly, without appearing to realise she said it. “I spent six years here as a child. I’ve seen so much since then, that all of the Yamani that was built into me has been changed by that, and so I look around here with different eyes. My home is a fort occupied by commoners, not soldiers, refugees who fought tooth and nail for something resembling home. They’re some of the bravest people I know, and yet if I had returned there I would still not feel at home. I’m out of place. Out of purpose.”

“I know how you feel. For me, home is a temple community, and I live with a sister in a house in the city. Winding Circle’s my home, Summersea is getting that way now, but I had some bad experiences before I came here, too. My sisters helped me through it, but they all had their own things to deal with. They tried, but I just needed to get away. My teacher had had friends that had visited here, and they said that it had the greatest array of miniature gardens anywhere aside from Yanjing. And miniature gardens are a bit of a hobby.”

“Your sisters sound wonderful.” She smiles, and leans against the wall as he opens his door.

“Would you like a drink?” He asks, looking across at her. There’s only a short difference in their heights, even though she’s taller than most of the women he knows, and he wants her to see the actual sincerity in his eyes, that this isn’t a move (and it’s not, not yet, no matter how loudly he knows the girls would huff at that)..

“I’d love one.” He opens the door and steps against it, and she brushes gently against him as she walks through, a small smile on her face. 

“Do you need any bruise balm, or anything?” She asks, concern clear in her eyes. He’s hardly noticed the pain, talking with her, and yet when she mentions it, it throbs.

“One of the benefits of being a plant mage.” He smiles, and digs through his mage kit. He smooths some balm over his hand, watching as she examines his room, stopping at his shakkan. She runs a hand across the trunk, watching as the branches curl towards her and the sun. She smiles.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s actually almost a funny story of how I got it.” He pours them each a glass of cider, and motions her to sit. “ I’d only just arrived in Winding Circle...”

He watches her face as he tells his tale, her giggle when he tells her of Crane chasing him, and outright laughter at his description of Sandry at the gate. He tells her more of his sisters, painting a vivid picture of his family, as she tells him about her own, and about her friends and escapades in the King’s Own. He feels more comfortable with her then he has since he left Emelan, leaving Sandry and Daja at the docks, Tris already on her way to Lightsbridge, than he has with anyone else but the girls and their family for a very long time. He doesn’t know it, but she feels more at peace then she has since the Chamber released her after her Ordeal, no matter the small moments of peace she has had scattered in between, there was always something, war, peace talks, raids, reports. They stop talking only when the lamps in the walls begin to glow, and she remembers she has dinner with Yuki’s family. He waits to close the door, and she smiles.

“I had a great time today.” He says quietly. She nods.

“Will you be at the ball tomorrow night?” She asks, her voice just as soft.

“It would be my honour to escort you, if you wish.” A smile spreads across his face, cheekily, and she grins in return.

“I would like that very much, Briar.”

.

He arrives at her door holding a bouquet of buds, looking trim and handsome in smart breeches, a white shirt and daintily embroidered tunic of silk that she guesses Sandry made. She can see the hint of his medallion, from the ribbon at the sides of his neck, and he’s wearing a cheeky grin that has become very familiar. She looks pointedly at the buds, and he grins, before handing one to her, and watching it bloom into a tulip before her very eyes. A soft smile grows across her face, and she rummages around to find a vase, filling it with water.

“They should last a couple of weeks. Maybe a month.”

“They’re beautiful.” She says, smiling sincerely, and feels happiness sweep through her.

“As are you.” He says softly, admiring her gown. The inner gown is a silky black, with dark grey embroidered dragons around the edges. The outer gown is a violent pink, and decorated with white embroidery, with the signs of peace and hope, he thinks, and small birds he presumes are sparrows, judging by what she has told him. A small smile graces her face, and he bows and offers his arm.

.

He’s quite a good dancer, better than she expected him to be, though she really shouldn’t have been so surprised. He’s light on his feet, a remnant from his former life as a thief and as graceful dancing as he is with a staff or a glaive. She’s also more graceful then he expected, being a knight, but then he has a feeling that her glaive practice, as well as her upbringing here contributed to that, though he wonders if she had any practice in her pagehood. He leads her through a series of complicated dance patterns, dance after dance, and after their first stumble, she takes his hand and leads him into the courtyard, laughing, and they breathe in the chilly air. 

 

“So why are you really here?” His voice is soft, and the only other sounds that can be heard is the crickets, chirping in the garden and the soft rush of water from the fountain.

“Why are you really here?” She replies, smiling back.

“I’m a traveller.”

“I’m here to visit my sister, and to accompany my best friend to show her daughter to her family.” He sighs, and she laughs.

“Can I guess that you’re running away from something?” His voice is quiet, and he is tracing the patterns along her arm. She is silent, thinking.

“I fought in the Scanran War. I was the commander of a refugee camp for commoners displaced by the war and raiders. It was overrun by the enemy, and they were all taken or killed to Scanra. I disobeyed my orders and followed them, and my friends followed me as well. I killed the mage that would have killed all of the children, but there were a lot of good people that died. The war continued for a year and a bit after that, and we were a victim of the enemy’s last attack. They thought that we were a weak link, and we showed them we weren’t, and a couple of people I was very close to basically sacrificed themselves to save me. So I’ve escaped. I’ve ran away. I just needed some time to breathe. To recover.”

“I guess you could say I’m running away too. I was in a war, in Gyongxe. The Yanjing Emperor decided to attack the Living Circle temple, and it got pretty bad. Me and Rosethorn and Evvy made it out, and then I went to Namorn with the girls, ‘cause Sandry’s related to the Empress and she needed to assert her place. And then that spiralled out, and she saw us all as objects she could possess. She tried to keep us, and nearly killed Tris, and so we blew her magical barrier to pieces. I’ve had enough of empires. I just needed somewhere away from war. Somewhere where I could heal, take some time to play and not work and relax and breathe without having a bleater look at my head.”

He looks over at her as his voice falters, and she’s looking at him with sympathy and not pity because when it comes down to it, they’re in the same place. She places her hands on either side of his face, , and she looks at him with complete seriousness.

“Are you okay now?” She asks, her voice as cool and commanding as he imagines it to be when she gives orders.

“Being here with you has made me feel better than I have in months.”

She leans over and presses her lips firmly to his, and his hand curls around the back of her neck as he pulls her closer. Her hands run through his hair and she tastes like sweetened green tea and cider. She pulls away, breathing heavily, and his hand tangles through her hair and the other wraps around her waist. She brushes hair off his forehead, and trails her hand down the side of his face.

“Am I too presumptuous?” She asks, her voice rough. He grins wickedly back at her, his voice unsteady.

“Your room or mine?”

They laugh quietly as he wraps an arm tight around her waist, fingers tracing along her hip, and they exit the garden.. 

.

Several weeks later, he carries the final of her bags to the ship. She waits, leaning on the jetty posts, as he tips the sailor. He saunters casually back to her, and pulls her close, placing a kiss on the side of her neck.

“You know Kel, you’ve helped me more than you know.” She smiles sadly, and a tear slips down her cheek. He blots at it with his sleeve, and she wraps her arms around him.

“And you’ve helped me even more than you know.”

“Only in teaching you a few new tricks.” She swats his back, and he laughs.

“Everyone’s going aboard.”

“I know.” He tightens his arms around her, and she sighs. 

“I won’t forget this, Briar.””

“Neither will I.” He holds her tightly and kisses her deeply, savouring the seconds. She kisses him again, twice quickly, and pulls away, wiping her eyes and his own. She turns and waves as she walks up the gangplank, and she leans against the railing, watching him as the ship readies. He waves as the ship pulls away, and she waves back, and he waits until the ship is out of the harbour before he turns away. He gives the ship a last glance before walking towards the markets, whistling. The girls would never let him live it down if he returned without a variety of presents and exciting tales of his adventures, even if they wouldn’t quite believe him.


End file.
